


Con Claims

by GhostHost



Series: Con Claiming Culture [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Con Claiming Culture, Warnings Given per Chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:06:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25604041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostHost/pseuds/GhostHost
Summary: Deadlock's fangs in Ratchet's neck, Brainstorm's claws down Perceptor's shoulder, Rodimus's fire on Megatron's plating.Jazz's optic, Starscream's wing, the Twin's throats.Claiming Culture is a serious practice the Decepticon's hold and it was only a matter of time before someone introduced the Autobots to it.(All the Con Claiming Culture fics that exist within the same series/timeline/universe, now in the same place!)
Relationships: Brainstorm/Perceptor (Transformers), Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet, Jazz/Prowl, Megatron/Rodimus | Rodimus Prime, Starscream/Wheeljack (Transformers)
Series: Con Claiming Culture [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1855786
Comments: 34
Kudos: 245





	1. Deadlock/Ratchet, Prowl/Jazz: Ownership

**Author's Note:**

> Here lies all my Con Claiming Culture fics from Tumblr, conveniently in one place! This fic contains all the CCC fics that belong in the same universe. The stand alone fics within this same AU are in a separate drabble anthology called "Social Scars." These are not in chronological order, but rather in order of what makes most sense to me lol. I did spend SOME time editing these further but please let me know if you see a mistake! They are being uploaded slowly as I edit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 1 and 2 have been previously posted on A03 under 'Track List.' To skip to a fic that wasn't posted on A03 please go to chapter 3!
> 
> Summary: Con Culture: Ownership--Jazz pops by to explain the depths of Con Claiming Culture, and why Ratchet's lovely new bitemarks on his neck means Deadlock will follow him forever.
> 
> Warnings: Bitemarks/wounds (Deadlock bites Ratchet's neck pretty good), discussion of severe injuries, scarification as a cultural claim, etc. Lemme know if you want something else up here!

Ownership 

* * *

“You’re doing great.” Ratchet rasped, voice static ridden. His optics flickered, body tense, his free hand curling into a fist and back. **  
**

His other hand was pressing a wire mesh sponge against the right side of his neck, holding firm against all the energon trying to escape out the jagged tears. 

The medic working on him, some small monoformer named Lancet, nervously murmured his thanks as he worked on the other side of Ratchet’s neck, unnerved both by the gravity of the CMO’s wounds and the fact he was working on the mech himself.

Sideswipe wasn’t so happy about it either, but the guy was the only available medic from here to Headquarters, and Ratchet had been bleeding out too fast to make it back. 

Comm conversation quietly buzzed, as it had been non-stop since the twins had called the attack in. 

“Jazz is here.” Sunstreaker grunted once the buzzing finally stopped, his seething presence the other reason Lancet was practically shaking in fear. 

Sideswipe reached over their bond, sending the emotional equivalent of a soothing hand stroking down his brothers back. The attack had rattled them both, not just because it had come well within Autobot territory, but because of how personal it had been. 

Deadlock had been blatantly after Ratchet, and Ratchet alone–and he clearly expected to take him hostage. It had been pure chance the twins had been his escorts to begin with, as they had changed shifts earlier in exchange for quietly getting supplies to make high grade.

Some of what was said…

They both were on edge and would be for a long, long time. 

“Heard you lot had an exciting day!” Jazz announced in his usual cheer, trotting into the small, makeshift medbay as if Ratchet hadn’t almost lost his life. 

Sunstreakers optics flashed, barely bridled rage flicking up like flames in the bond. He turned, mouth in an open snarl, and Sideswipe elbowed him hard before he could blow up at Jazz.

As far into the war as they were, both twins had well learned there were mechs you did not cross.

Jazz was one of them. 

“Not quite the word we’d use.” Sideswipe answered, his voice tense as he tried to keep his brother under control. 

Jazz hummed in acknowledgement, stepping up and invading Lancet’s space to get a look at the CMO’s injury. Lancet allowed it, though it was clear by the way he briefly froze that Jazz’s presence also made him nervous.

Something the CMO saw and did not like. “Quit spooking my medic.” Ratchet hissed, glaring. 

“Sorry, sorry.” Jazz said, raising his hands in surrender. He backed off, placing himself opposite of the twins, behind Lancet so he could still see the medic work. “Pit mech, Deadlock sure got you good.”

“Pretty sure he was trying to go for ‘dead’ and not ‘good’.” Sideswipe said, without his usual humor. Deadlock was one of the few mechs they had orders not to engage with unless forced. The twins had only encountered him once before today, but that had been on a large battlefield with all kinds of distracting bombs and enemy fire getting in the way. 

Today they had gotten an up close look at his skills, and found themselves lacking. 

There would be a lot of extra training in their future. Neither of them would be resting until they were confident they could handle him individually. 

Jazz made a noise that wasn’t quite an agreement, settling in to watch Lancet work. 

A long, tense silence followed, one unlike the saboteur. 

“Why are you here Jazz?” Sunstreaker demanded flatly, his control slipping from Sideswipes careful fingers. Sideswipe cringed internally, admonishing his brother over the bond while equally trying to soothe him but it was useless now. 

Sunstreaker had put it out there, and he’d want a serious answer. 

The real source of Sunstreaker's ire was that he thought they were being doubted. Rightfully so, since they’d failed to keep Rachet from being hurt–-but with their failure, came the potential for them to be booted from the army.

Many mechs had made it clear they were tolerated only for their ability to fight. High command had never said it since they’d made it all the way into the Primal Guard, but there was no doubt the threats still stood.

Sunstreaker was furious, and under it all, frightened. 

Sideswipe was too–but that didn’t mean he wanted to get booted right here, right now. 

Not without making sure Ratchet was at least safe. 

The smile stayed on Jazz’s face but his field changed to something serious before he withdrew it entirely. 

“Deadlock bit you.” He said, addressing the room but facing Ratchet. “I’m here to make sure you understand what that means.”

“That he’s crazy?” Sideswipe scoffed, crossing his arms and trying not to show how happy he was to turn the conversation in a direction away from himself and Sunstreaker. 

“It’s a claim.” Ratchet grit out. “I’m aware.”

“Not just a claim.” Jazz tilted his head, making a clear study of the bite, and the way Deadlock had slowly dragged all four fangs down and around the medics neck. “The highest kind of claim. Without interference, you would’ve died from that wound.”

“What kind of sick claim does that represent?” Sideswipe asked, disgusted. He and Sunstreaker understood the concept of a Con claim, likely better than most other Autobots. It was something that had originated in the gladiatorial rings, centered around the few things an enslaved mech could do to show love. 

All you had down there was your body and your wits. You’d never be able to bond with someone, let alone propose with a fancy crystal or pay for pretty engravings for your spark cases. You could however, leave a scar, and whisper a promise that inside or outside of a ring, you’d die to protect them from harm. 

This was far beyond that.

“Ownership.” Jazz replied easily, as if he discussed such things every day. 

The twins just stared at him. 

“Deadlock sent you messages before this, didn’t he?” He continued, turning his attention back on Ratchet. 

Who winced, and not because of Lancet welding his wound closed. “He might’ve.” He admitted. 

“And they had a few declarations in them, I bet. About how he’d prove himself worthy. Maybe named a few mechs he felt he was better than? like say, Optimus?”

Ratchets chin dipped down as if to give a nod, but he caught himself before he completed it and ruined Lancets work, the mech having just started on the other side of his neck. “Yes.” He growled instead, fighting to sit still the way he always told his patients too.

“That bite ain’t because he felt like tasting Bot blood. He was proving himself to you, as your better, as your protector, and yeah mech. As your owner. By his count he was successful.” Jazz crossed his arms, leaned back against the wall. “He would’ve fixed that wound himself, but he doesn’t need to to complete the claim. You just needed to survive it. Now he’s gonna follow ya to the pit and beyond, an’ he might not understand why you keep refusing him.”

“Refusing him what exactly?” Sideswipe asked, processor whirling with all the potential ramifications Jazz was laying out. ‘Refuse to be owned?“

Jazz hummed in agreement. "Kept, loved, why Ratchet won’t switch sides for him.”

Even Lancet made a face at that.

“He’s smarter than that.” Ratchet protested flatly. If there was one thing in the universe he didn’t doubt, it was the intelligence that lurked beneath all of Deadlock’s bloodlust and violence. 

There was more–a lot more–to Deadlock than the front that most mechs knew. Ratchet happened to be one of the lucky few who understood just how much more, though right now that was part of his problem more than anything.

He understood why Jazz was there–and it had nothing to do with the twins. 

“War’s been on longer than most of us have been alive.” Jazz retorted. “He’s smart yeah, but this is something ingrained in him. In the Decepticons as a whole.” He gave another shrug, as if that explained why one would be impressed enough to change sides over something like this.

“You done there kiddo?” He continued, pivoting to stare at Lancet, who’d finished his welding and was now wiping down his bosses neck. 

“Yes, sir.” The medic said, despite the glare that was deepening on Ratchet’s face. The medics were his mechs. He’d been the Chief Medical Officer since the war had begun, and he didn’t care how high up in command you were. The only mechs who bossed a medic around was him. 

Jazz knew this.

He also didn’t care.

“Good.” Jazz said cheerily. “Get out.”

“Jazz.” Ratchet warned, wanting nothing more than to just sit on the med berth a moment longer without contemplating what all this meant. 

Lancet hurried to collect his tools, not needing to be told twice to leave. 

“Who the frag is insane enough to change sides in a war because someone damaged you to prove they wanted you?” Sunstreaker bit out, the second Lancet was gone, and they were alone. Rage mixed with outright disgust, a feeling Sideswipe was echoing. 

As an answer, Jazz gave a fanged grin–and triggered his visor to retract. It split down the middle–and even Ratchet was taken aback, as all of them had assumed the visor was there in place of optics. Jazz certainly acted like it was, instead of a mech who had a glass HUD. 

Had done so when Ratchet, or any other medic, had examined him.

The sight they revealed was a second, direct punch to the tank. Sideswipes optics popped wide as a single, Con red optic was revealed, alongside a ruined and scarred metal mess where the other optic should be. 

Someone had punched in, then ripped out Jazz’s right optic, and judging by all the scarring left around the welds that had closed the wound, they hadn’t been nice about it. 

“Primus.” Sideswipe bit out. 

“You’re a Con.” Sunstreaker added, back going ramrod straight.

“Was.” Jazz corrected, the fanged grin still on his face. Despite it all, he was enjoying this. “Not anymore.” He tapped the destroyed half of his face, and then his Autobot badge to prove his point.

Luckily for him, Ratchet was quick on the uptake. “You’re saying someone on our side did that to you." 

"You switched sides because someone did that to you.” Sideswipe corrected, the implications making his tank clench. 

“Who?” Ratchet demanded, sounding for once like his throat hadn’t been nearly destroyed less than four hours ago. A protective growl ran through it, one that pleased Jazz like nothing else did. 

Ratchet was his friend. Would remain to be, just as he would remain alive and firmly on the Autobots side.

He would personally insure it. 

“Prowl.” Jazz answered, landing the third punch to the tank. “Mech played it by the book, same as your Deadlock did." 

"And you just gave up the Cons because of that!?” Sunstreaker said, disbelieving. 

“It was a long time ago, back when we all thought this war might actually end sometime soon.” Jazz explained. He triggered his visor, closing it so his friends could no longer see. 

“He promised me he’d get me the position of third in command of the entire Autobot army if I defected. Said Megatron was wasting my potential because he had Soundwave. Said if I stayed purple, I would’ve gotten bored, executed or worse: both. And he was right.” He shrugged once more, as if none of this was as utterly insane as it sounded. 

“Prowl, our Prowl, hunted you down and tore your optic out to prove you’d make a better Autobot than Decepticon.” Sideswipe deadpanned. 

He got an indulgent smile. “Nah mech, he did that to prove he wasn’t fooling around. I wasn’t exactly easy to catch, even back then. Prowl knew how to get my attention–and keep it.” Jazz turned back to face Ratchet, and that easy smile came off his face. 

“You however, we can’t afford to lose. Prowl sent me here to make sure you–and your shiny new permanent guards" He gestured to the twins with his thumb, “understood the lengths you all need to go to to keep you safe.”

It was Sideswipe’s turn to straighten in a hurry. “We’re off the Primal Guard?" 

"Temporarily, until we can move Ratch away from his suitor." 

"Distance won’t help.” Ratchet muttered, barely loud enough to be heard. 

Jazz agreed. “Nah mech, it won’t.” He said. 

“Why not?” Sunstreaker growled. 

“Because the last thing I need to remind you of, is that an ownership claim is only ever made when both parties have already expressed interest.” Jazz’s field finally stretched out, sympathy held within it. He held it there for a long moment, making sure his friend knew he didn’t blame him for his prior actions. That he understood cross-action appeal, or how the war twisted interactions, both pre and current, into something they weren’t. “We can’t lose you, Ratchet." 

Who grit his denta. "You won’t.” He promised. “What happened between me and him is long over. He’s just refused to admit it since he changed his name.”

Jazz hummed. “Told my superiors the same thing. Didn’t mean much in the end.”

“Good for you. I fragging mean it.” Ratchet stood, determination bright in his optics. “I’m the Autobot Chief Medical Officer. The only thing that will change that is death.”

“Good.” Jazz said, then turned to the twins. “Until we get far enough away from Deadlock to reasonably follow, your new job is to make sure he stays that way. Alive.” 

“Yes sir.” Sideswipe said. Sunstreaker echoed it a moment later, after he had his own long look at Jazz.

Who just clapped his hands. “Well now that that excitement is over, let’s say we all get back to HQ, hmm?”

Taking defensive positions around Ratchet, that’s what the four of them did. 

xXx

"How is he?” Prowl asked, seated at the desk in his hab, his optics never once leaving the datapad in his hands.

“Better'n I thought. He at least knew what a claim was.” Jazz answered, the door whooshing closed behind him. 

He leaned down to press a kiss against Prowl’s cheek and chuckled, delighted, when the SIC’s hand caught his chin and held him, so he could turn and give a hard, proper kiss.

Prowl’s optics returned immediately to the datapad once he let go. Having none of that, Jazz sat in his lap.

“Showed ‘em my face. Under the visor.” He admitted. That part had been unplanned. Ratchet was a good friend of his, and he liked the twins. More than he should have. 

“To Ratchet and the twins?” Prowl clarified. At Jazz’s nod, he snorted through his vents. “The entire base will know you were a Con by noom.”

“Don’t care.” Jazz said, releasing his claws and hooking them in his mates Chevron. “Needed him to understand he could come to me if he needed to, without judgement." 

“Then it was worth it.” Prowl said, as if things were just that black and white. 

Jazz knew they weren’t–knew Prowl knew they weren’t, but he appreciated the mech’s bluntness about it. What was done was done. Fallout would be minimal, the two of them would insure it.

The only thing left to worry about was Deadlock, but then Jazz was certain Prowl had some plans for that too. 

He’d find out another day, he decided, and promptly plucked the datapad out of his mates hands and chucked it on the desk. Right now, he just wanted his mate.

Jazz got him. 


	2. Brainstorm/Perceptor: Claws

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Brainstorm/Perceptor
> 
> Summary: Brainstorm is panicked, Perceptor is annoyed, Drift is amused. This is the same fic as the one that exists in Track List. That version of the fic will stay there to preserve comments and links. If you are looking for a CCC fic that has not been posted in Track List please skip to chapter 3!
> 
> Warnings: Claw marks, blood, weird societal constructs/proposals. As always if you want something up here, drop me a line!

Claws

* * *

When moving from Autobot culture to Decepticon culture, Brainstorm had a few advantages. **  
**

The most obvious was that he was a flight frame, one that had been awakened pre-war. He understood the society they had built as many of it had been taken from flight frame culture, the product of the mass majority of them being Decepticons.

His second advantage was that he was an MTO. Brainstorm had participated in the protests (and once even a riot, though that had been an accident) The dichotomy of the various classes was something he knew intimately, as it had effected him, and his pursuit of science, directly. 

His third, and final, advantage, was the fact that once one understood Con Culture, it was remarkably easy to figure out where you stood in it. Autobots faulted them for being blunt or rude, but what they missed was that for the most part the way they communicated was straight faced. There was no right or wrong thing to say. Sometimes there was nothing to say at all, with actions speaking for you. 

Once you earned someone’s trust, or someone’s protection, you almost always had it for life.

This was something that spoke to him.

What he didn’t have, was the fangs. Starting off as an Autobot meant Brainstorm never bothered with them, and to get them so late in the game would be looked on with a great deal of suspicion. (Even for someone who was so well known for being as crazy as he was.) It was far easier to install the claws and hide them, which is the option he went for. 

Why the claws were needed was one of those weird little facts most Autobots didn’t care about. ‘Cons had fangs and claws because they ( _wanted to make themselves scarier/evil/more primal/more bestial/pit-like_ ) just did, and that was that. 

It was certainly never something Perceptor thought about. Not until an expedition gone awry lead to one of the _Lost Light’s_ shuttles being boarded by a band of roving ‘Cons. Rather than panic or try and science his way out of things, Brainstorm had merely heard the name of the boarding ‘Con crew, blanched, and then turned and raked claws down the side of Percy’s neck to his shoulder.

“Brainstorm!” He’d spat at the time, instinctively jerking away. His hand leapt up to cover the deep gouges–the jet had gotten him good enough that it had hit his protoform–and felt the seep of energon as it sluggishly spilled out of his armor. 

“What the _pit–!”_ He demanded, but Brainstorm had already turned to pass a weapon on to Whirl, and then there were ‘Cons busting through the door and Perceptor was too busy shooting to demand answers.

Frankly, he forgot all about it until he was back aboard the Lost Light, being treated for two gunshot wounds (with physical bullets, how primitive) and the scratches in his neck (far more annoying, seeing as Brainstorm had essentially dumped him in the medbay then ran.) He trailed his hand down the scratches again, wincing as he did so–this was something that was going to scar–the motion of which attracted Drift.

Who did his name proud by drifting over, optics locked on the very scratches Perceptor was picking at. 

“Did one of the ‘Con’s do that to you?” He said, voice as serious as Percy had ever heard it. (Which was saying something, considering the ex-Wrecker had been the one to both teach him how to shoot and drill general gun safety into his helm, and there was nothing he took more seriously than guns.) 

“No.” He responded, frustrated. “Brainstorm did.” 

A puzzled look crossed his friend’s face, before realization dawned. “Right. I forgot about the whole spy thing.” He said, as if everything suddenly made sense.

Considering Preceptor was still left in the dark, all it did was upset him more. “What does that have to do with anything?” He demanded. 

To his annoyance, Drift just grinned at him. “Yeah sorry, I’ll let Brains explain that one to you.”

 _“Drift.”_ Perceptor grumped, but by then Ratchet had appeared, checking on his injuries and swatting his hands away from the scratches with one hand and shooing Drift away with the other. 

The next day his lab desk held a core component reactor, front and center, and an apology note with nothing more than ‘Sorry I panicked’ scrolled on it. 

A year and several dimensions later, Perceptor was sitting in a bar, ignoring his drink in favor for venting at Drift.

“–can’t even tell most days what he wants. I’m worried he only liked me because of my–my shape, or–” He was in the middle of saying, doing his best to ignore the slightly smug, ‘I know something you don’t know’ look Drift swore his face couldn’t make. 

“Percy.” He interrupted, hand landing lightly on top of one of his hands. “Do you have a scar from that time he scratched you?”

It took a moment for the scientist to pull his processor from the topic at hand (him, trying to start a relationship with Brainstorm when he was growing more and more positive he had misread the jet’s intentions completely) to understand what Drift was referring to.

“Yes.” He said finally, free hand coming up to feel his shoulder. A scowl crawled over his face. “Frankly if I didn’t cover it with paint every few vorns, it would show.” 

“Then there you go.” Drift leaned back, lifting his hands up and spreading them as if that answered all Percy’s questions. 

It did not.

“Explain.” He deadpanned, tired of everyone dancing around this small mystery. The few people he’d dared ask about the scratches had only looked at him as though he, or Brainstorm, had gone crazy (except for Ratchet, who’d only congratulated him on joining ‘The Club.’ before once again kicking him out of the medbay.) 

Apparently sensing it was time to spill, Drift smirked at him, but offered an answer. “Should you decide to not cover the marks, and we ran into a group of ‘Cons again, you might find that the whole lot of them would have decided that you have been, ah, taken.”

“Taken.” He didn’t say it like a question, even though it definitely was one.

“Claimed, marked, protected, whatever word you want to use.” 

“By Brainstorm.” 

“Mm _hmm_.” Drift leaned forward, crossing his arms on the table. “How about you finish that,” He pointed at the drink, “and go ask him for yourself. Get him in a corner and don’t take no for an answer.”

“I believe I will do just that.” Perceptor said, hands going to the drink as his processor kicked into overdrive.

Claimed.

What kind of idiotic thing….

But then it was Brainstorm, wasn’t it?

A thought struck him right after he stood up, and he asked it, staring down at his friend. “Does Ratchet have such a mark?” He said, half dreading the answer. He hadn’t seen one on the medic but then, he’d never bothered to look closely either.

Drift just gave him a fanged grin as an answer.


	3. Perceptor/Brainstorm: Mutual

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Perceptor gets even. 
> 
> Warnings: Scarification as a cultural claim, etc.

Mutual 

* * *

Research was a long time hobby of Perceptor’s. Hunting down information just as thrilling as working through a science project, or making a creation that would help the Autobot cause. 

The exception was the cases in which data evaded him. When facts were buried in misinformation, myths, or outright fiction. Those projects were slow to provide information, forcing the scientist to work hard to extract just one shred of evidence to work with. 

This current project of his was the frustrating kind. 

It was also insanely important. 

The Decepticons as a whole had not written down the rules of their culture. There was no handy guide, or forum where a helpful mech answered questions. There was no datapad written by an outside scholar (or even, an inside one.)

What there was, was an insane amount of erotica, and Perceptor was absolutely done reading those. 

The Decepticons, as it turned out, were very fond of smut as a culture. A data point certainly, but not one that helped him in any way. 

Three weeks he’d been chasing answers, three weeks he’d spent asking Brainstorm more and more pointed questions. The jet had been forthcoming in answering, but there were certain topics, certain threads of thought that Perceptor knew he was being softballed about, and he was done.

With a frustrated hiss, Perceptor finally gave in and did what he knew he should have done from the start.

He commed Drift.

xXx

“You know you could have just asked me to begin with.” Drift said, just as Perceptor knew he would. He sat across from the microscope, sipping on a drink with a smile. 

He and Drift didn’t hang out much due to their schedules, but they still made time for each other. Something he appreciated now, even if he was frustrated with all this Decepticon nonsense. 

“I am aware.” Perceptor huffed. “However I wanted to find the answers myself. I read enough to know you’re supposed to do that.” 

Drift laughed at him. “How do you think you’re supposed to find answers? You can absolutely talk to people!” He explained, enjoying the way Perceptor immediately rolled his optics at the revelation. “You’re just not supposed to ask anyone who will go and tell your potential claimee what you’re up to.” 

“I hate many Cons for many reasons, but the fact that not one of you wrote any of this down is a large one.” The scientist complained, before taking a sip of his own drink. Perceptor wasn’t a drinker, and could easily nurse one glass for an entire night, but this was proving to be one of the rare occasions where he ordered more than his usual amount. 

Case and point, he was on his second glass already. 

“Hate to tell you, but Autobot culture is just as confusing, and no one wrote anything down about it either.” Drift countered.

“I will fix that immediately.” Perceptor stated, before giving in and taking another drink. “Though I admit I may not be the best person to do so.”

“It’s a start. Maybe I’ll even contribute, give an outside to inside perspective.” Drift said, grin still on his face. It was nice to see an Autobot take a stab at all this for once, instead of the other way ‘round. “But I do have the answer to all those questions you threw at me earlier.” 

Perceptor made an impatient hurry up motion with his hand, straw not leaving his mouth.

Drift took his cue easily enough.

“A claim is a kind of hierarchy, but you’re right. You can claim someone back. It’s not exactly rare, but it is uncommon–a lot of claims are based around protection and reputation.” He explained, trying to condense decades of information into a few simple sentences. 

Somehow, he managed.

“Doing so brings both claims into a sort of mutual standing. You’re saying you both will give everything you have for each other. In love and life. It’s not just about protection either, it’s about belonging to each other, in a very public way. Sort of like when humans get a wedding ring tattoo instead of just the actual wedding ring.” He said, because it was an easy to use example he knew both of them would understand (and also because the bar had been playing Mamma Mia on repeat, and no one had gotten up the courage to ask Swerve why he was stuck on it yet.) “The issue is how you’re going to claim Brainstorm.” 

A fact Perceptor had already considered, judging by the scientists’ wince. 

“You can claim someone with a tool, but ideally, you want to make a permanent, life-long mark or scar with something…personal. From your own frame, not something you just picked up off the ground. Not that I think Brainstorm will care.” Drift added, because when it came down to it–Perceptor didn’t have the equipment.

He was born a scientist, and turned into an Autobot. He did not possess fangs or claws. Getting either would get in his way, and was also a waste of materials and time (even if Ratchet owed them both favors.) 

The claim he was making however, wasn’t intense. It wasn’t made in the heat of battle, or in the middle of the war. Disconnected from the culture as he was, Drift hazaded that plenty of claims had been made since the war had ended, and a good majority of them likely far nicer than the kinds made during it.

And Brainstorm, truly, wouldn’t care. 

“I mean, you could bite him. You can still make a mark even with flat teeth.” Drift finished teasingly. 

“I would rather not do something so primitive.” Percpetor teased back, though few mechs would realize he was doing so. He had finally learned of the story behind Ratchet’s own marks on his neck–and the great embarrassment and love that brought Drift equally now that the medic was no longer hiding the marks. 

“Sorry mech, I don’t think you have a lot of options.” Drift said with a shrug.

Hitting the bottom of his drink, Perceptor promptly commed the Swerve’s bar channel for another. “What about an attachment to my frame? Made for the purpose of a claim?” 

The swordsmech thought about it. “So long as effort was put into it, then yeah. That’d work. Be _romantic_ even.”

Especially for Brainstorm. 

“Romantic.” Perceptor echoed doubtfully, as a drone dropped off his and Drift’s next round of drinks. “After the Autobot culture book, I recommend we write a Decepticon one.”

Drift’s grin grew. “You have a few more of those, and we can get started on both.” He said, pointing to Perceptor’s drink. 

“Agreed.” 

Then they did, much to the later horror and relief of a number of mechs. 

xXx

“There you are. I didn’t think you were coming back tonight.” Brainstorm said happily, leaping up and off their shared berth when Percpetor came through their habsuit door. They didn’t technically share a room, not yet–but Brainstorm had invaded Percy’s hab since the day the microscope had demanded to talk about the mark he’d given him. 

It had, slowly, quietly, become something of a permanent, unspoken agreement.

Perceptor didn’t answer him, instead striding forward. 

“Oh whoa, what’d you do to your microscope?” The jet continued, immediately spotting the new, pointed end to the barrel of Percy’s microscope that sat on his shoulder. It was grey and looked to be almost a new, condensed lens of some kind, maybe even–

“Is that a laser?” Brainstorm asked, before Percy was suddenly in his space, shoving him back on the berth. The jet went down easily enough, a question right on the tip of his tongue.

A question that promptly died and came out a strangled squeak as Perceptor climbed up and straddled him.

“Stay down.” The scientist ordered, his microscope spinning down to point towards Brainstorm’s chest. “Hands behind your back.” 

Brainstorm obeyed mindlessly, too busy trying not to overheat to question what was happening. 

A green dot appeared right above his Autobrand, a hum filling the air and before the younger scientist could get his processor out of the gutter, Perceptor fired. 

It _burned._

Brainstorm yelped, body jerking–but Percy had come prepared, knees spread out to catch Brainstorms low slung wings, pinning him in place.

For a moment he rode the thrashing movements out, smoke curling upwards, before finally, turning the laser off. 

“Fuck Percy!” Brainstorm howled, trying to get his hands free. “What did I do to _deserve_ that!? I–” 

His train of thought promptly died as Perceptor bent over him, one blue optic staring directly at his face, before he licked the burn mark. 

“Now,” He said, voice dark with possession, “we’re even.” 

He could practically hear Brainstorm’s processor explode underneath him. 

xXx

“Did you build me a laser? To claim me with!?” Brainstorm said, voice awed. He stared down at the mark, an exact, perfect circle, burned not just through his plating, but all the way through to his spark chamber with scarily accurate precision. “Holy shit, you did!” 

“I did.” Perceptor said smugly, feeling Brainstorms field explode in desire and excitement under him and knowing he caused it.

The jet raised his head, staring up at him with loving optics. “You’re the best.” He said.

Perceptor just grinned. 


	4. Rodimus/Megatron: Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Rodimus/Megatron 
> 
> Summary: Megatron isn't blind but he sure likes to pretend he is. Rodimus is done trying to force him to see.
> 
> Warnings: Kinda sorta dubcon (Megatron was more aware of the claim Rodimus was trying to make than Roddy realizes and he did "allow" it to happen in that he did not stop it) burning, marks, biting (throats again, ain’t I predictable) mentions of death.

Burn

* * *

Amica Endura means a lot of things.

Trading pieces of yourselves, making life-long promises, being there in ways no one else would ever be. 

For Drift and Rodimus, it meant sharing two pasts that were otherwise unshareable. Unthinkable. It was a bond built on dead bodies, on decisions made between a rock and another fragging rock. 

It meant that unlike most the other Autobots, Rodimus had a decent understanding of Decepticon culture. 

Megatron was not aware of this. 

So he doubts himself, when Rodimus argues with him, pushes him, pursues him. 

The mech was the leader of one of the largest armies the entire fragging universe had ever seen, yet doubt creeps into him when Rodimus stands on a chair and flicks his fingers in his face. Crawls across his optics when Rodimus swerves ahead, moving into position so that he’s the first to attack an enemy and not Megatron. 

Overrides instincts long made when Rodimus takes a hit meant for him. Protects him–from Optimus, from the crew, from the fragging _DJD._

Or tries to, anyways. 

His efforts don’t always work.

The Primeling is being of self doubt, of a personality forever pushing through the shadows of others. He knows what people think of him, and he knows what people think of Megatron, and he knows how he feels this far into their trip; well into another dimension, able to witness all the changes that have happened to both of them. 

Rodimus matches his Co-Captain step for step, to the point where even Brainstorm has given him a look for it, but the scientist doesn’t say anything. 

Neither does Ambulon, though the latter does a double take when Rodimus snarls that Megatron is to stay back, stand down, let Rodimus handle this. 

The other Autobots think it’s some kind of insecurity. They see it as almost childish at times, and annoying at others. 

Megatron isn’t their Captain though. Rodimus is, and he’s proven that over and over–but that doesn’t mean they don’t roll their optics when he’s not looking. 

Misfire tried to say something to Swerve once, but the latter had outright refused to even entertain the very idea, and the rest of the Scavengers?

They got this far by knowing when to shut up and ignore something. Not a single one of them is going to draw attention when the fragging former leader of the Decepticons bows to the next-in-line Prime. 

“That’s their mess and we’re not getting in the middle of it.” Krok quietly tells his crew. 

Wisely, they agree. 

Now the _Lost Light_ has passed through three dimensions. Now, Rodimus has seen the final piece he needed to make his claim, has gotten a positive response even though he’s not sure Megatron’s conscious of making it. 

It’s a blatant go ahead for another ‘Con though, and Rodimus doesn’t hesitate, doesn't stop to wonder if the mech meant it. 

Half this stuff is instinctual, Drift had explained. A fact the smaller Captain agrees with now that he’s knee deep in it. 

They’re on the bridge, Megatron in the Captain’s chair, and for once Rodimus doesn’t fight him for it. 

The younger mech isn’t supposed to be on the bridge at all, a fact Megatron hasn’t yet called him out for.

It’s in the middle of the night, in the middle of a shift change, and they have the room to themselves for the next fifteen minutes, just as Rodimus intended. 

Megatron is saying something. 

Rodimus isn’t listening. 

Instead, he's climbing up into the chair, thighs straddling the sides of Megatron’s lap, hands balancing themselves on broad shoulders. 

“Rodimus.” The larger mech says, startled, only to be ignored. 

The speedster doesn’t have the traditional weapons for a claim–but he does have fire. 

The trick, he’d decided, was to strike fast, while Megatron was still deluding himself on what was happening. 

So he does. 

Mouth clamping down on Megatron’s throat, teeth holding him in place as the larger mech pulls back, he draws on his power. Flames answer Rodimus's call, coming up and out his mouth in a roar, and he can feel the flair of pain and pleasure that rips through Megatron’s field as his teeth burn marks into his deep throat. 

_“Rodimus!_ ” Megatron barks, this time sounding a hell of a lot more like the mech who’d started a war. Blue optics meet red, Megatron panting hard through his vents as Rodimus draws the flames higher, let’s them spill out of his spoilers and down, to engulf red plating. 

Now they’re both burning.

Not all of it is painful. In fact, none of it is, beyond the marks Rodimus is making on Megatron’s dark, stretched out throat–and the two matching handprints, burning five perfect lines a piece into his shoulders. Smoke curls out between his fingers from the mark, the smell of burning metal filling the air.

People had accused him since his very creation of being out of control. 

Too wild, too much. 

Here, he proves that he has what they all say he lacks–control so fine, he can let the fire that lives within him dance over the mech he’s claiming without injury to either of them. The only marks he leaves are the ones he intends, though the pressure he adds proves that he could kill if he wanted to–could have _always_ used this power, to kill.

That pressure helps his claim along. Proves that he can back it up. 

As a protector. A lover. A healer. 

The fire dies only when he’s satisfied. Both their chests heaving, Rodimus runs his hands down Megatron’s chest and then back up, pulling off to stare at his handiwork.

There is not a mech alive who won’t notice the changes. Who won’t be able to see the claim.

It’s flashy. Visible.

It fits Rodimus to a T. 

Megatron tries to say his name a third time. He can see it in the lip movement, in the way the older mech registers what’s happening and remains frozen in place. 

Rodimus doesn’t let him vocalize it. Leans up, rubbing his chest against Megatron’s, and presses a hard and fast kiss to the larger mechs mouth. 

He lets just a touch of fire remain at the back of his throat, just a hint of heat. His hands come up to cup Megatron’s face–the same ones that burned his shoulders moments before. 

The former warlord leans into his touch anyways, and Rodimus knows he’s won him.

Has had him, for a while now, not that the mech let himself admit it. 

“You don’t know what you’ve done.” Megatron says in a guttural tone when Rodimus finally releases him. Normally that would piss him off but not right now, not with the way he’s wrapped himself in Megatron’s field, filling it with the same amount of fire he’s shown physically. 

“I’ve known how to claim someone longer than I’ve known you.” He retorts easily. “But if you’re not sure, then I’m more than happy to do it again.” 

He gets a pleased, wanting shudder and considers it his reward. 

“People will talk, Rodimus–and they will target you. I refused to let myself be claimed for the entirety of the war. To let myself be claimed by you…” Megatron trails off, as yellow plated fingers trail up and press hard against the burn marks on his throat, cutting him off. 

“Did you?” Rodimus challenges. “Let me?” 

They both know the answer to that. 

Megatron doesn’t say it–was going to refuse–but rethinks it when Rodimus’s hand begins to reheat. 

“No.” He admits, and something in him unfurls. Something he doesn’t want to name, a long guarded part of himself kept away from all his atrocities. 

“No.” Rodimus echoes. “Because I did this _properly,_ and you know it, even if you've been ignoring it _._ So you get to let me worry about everyone else.” 

There’s a rebuke on Megatron’s tongue, a promise that he can figure out how to explain his burned plating, that he can let Rodimus out of this, only to choke it back down when he stares into his Co-Captain’s optics.

They’re the most serious he’s ever seen them–and that’s without the fire spilling out their edges. 

“You never learned to trust me. I had to force you to.” Rodimus tells him firmly. “Am I going to have to force you to keep to this too?” 

The unfurled thing within Megatron waits, listening for the answer.

A painful, long pause follows as they _both_ wait for the answer. 

“No.” Megatron says finally, surprising himself. Stronger, he repeats himself. “No. You’re right. You did it properly.” 

He worries Rodimus will regret it, worries this wasn’t the right choice–and then worries no more when Rodimus goes in and licks his throat. 


	5. StarJack: Cyanide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairring: Starjack, MegsMags 
> 
> Summary: Starscream had frozen, in the way he often did when Wheeljack showed any kind of vulnerability, but slowly, deliberately relaxed out of it. Raised a hand behind him to palm his lovers cheek.
> 
> “Megatron’s coming.” He said, and just like that all his actions made sense.
> 
> Warnings: Megatron here can be read as honestly trying to reform, and simply getting upset because he slips and their past is touchy, or you can read it the way Starscream does. I leaned it a bit more towards the latter, but if I where to write this from Megs pov I would twist it into both. Either way his prior actions are not forgiven or ignored, but acknowledged. 
> 
> Otherwise this has mentions of Starscream revoking a claim and Megatron ignoring it, Starscream constantly touching his former scars, scarification, panic attack/paranoia, and glossing over heavily bodily injury as a cultural claim. (Ya'll know my favorites are always the ones with an entire damn paragraph of warnings xD)

Cyanide

* * *

Starscream kept touching his throat. **  
**

It was immediately clear to Wheeljack and Windblade both that this was an unconscious movement. Something so unlike Starscream that Windblade bowed out of an argument and frantically comm’d Wheeljack to check on Cybertron’s leader, only able to say that Starscream was acting ::Really, _really_ weird.:: 

::Don’t worry, I saw it.:: Was all he’d comm’d back. 

Answers however, were not forthcoming and in typical Staracream fashion the seeker had shut down the instant Wheeljack had gotten even close to the issue.

In the end it had taken high grade, a massage, and Wheeljack leaning his helm against the back of Starscream’s and whispering; “I just want to help you.” to get anywhere.

Starscream had frozen, in the way he often did when Wheeljack showed any kind of vulnerability, but slowly, deliberately relaxed out of it. Raised a hand behind him to palm his lovers cheek.

“Megatron’s coming.” He said, and just like that all his actions made sense.

xXx

This isn’t the first time Megatron has “visited” since his exile to the _Lost Light_ but it is the first time Starscream’s supposed to speak with him in close quarters. 

They won’t be alone–neither Ultra Magnus nor Wheeljack would allow it. 

Shockingly, Wheeljack would learn later that Rodimus was vocally against the whole thing too, and only lost the argument to meet Starscream in place of Megatron when Ultra Magnus had sworn to accompany the former warlord. Rodimus comm’d Starscream personally, with an apology that had taken even the seeker aback. 

“I’ll take personal responsibility for him.” The younger mech had said with a grim kind of sincerity. “No hard feelings if he ends up on the wrong side of one of Wheeljack’s explosives.” He’d tried to make it sound like a joke, but his mouth had twisted as he’d said it.

“He’ll be safe so long as he doesn’t strike first.” Starscream had responded, in a way that was far more honest than usual. “Regardless, I will keep you informed.”

Wheeljack had been careful when he’d asked about the exchange but Starscream surprised him again by giving an answer. 

“He’s standing in my place.” He’d said, optics dim, caught in a memory. “Rodimus will be the first to be able to prove that Megatron’s reform,” the word curled into something disgusted, mocking with an edge, “is false.”

Which had ended up making Wheeljack proactively crash his own reunion video call with Ratchet, forfeiting a much needed ‘catch up’ conversation for something more serious. 

Thankfully, Drift had dropped into the vid call later, just as happy to finally be in range to talk without a lag as Ratchet had, and was able to provide insight that settled Wheeljack when it came to Rodimus–but also, unintentionally, gave him the information he didn’t realize he was missing. 

A lot of information.

About Starscream, Megatron, former claims and very recent ones.

xXx

“I’m not surprised he claimed Ultra Magnus.” Starscream said, pacing about Wheeljack’s living room, fingers once again worrying at his throat. “I _am_ surprised he let the idiot claim him back." 

Wheeljack watched him from the couch, his colors flashing a tired green, his systems still recovering from being pulled abruptly awake.

They were two weeks out from the _Lost Light’s_ arrival and Starscream had only grown more agitated. Enough that Wheeljack had practically moved into the seekers lavish apartment to keep him going while paranoia ate the mech alive. 

Last night had been their first night apart in almost twelve days-–Starscream had meetings well into the night and Wheeljack had gotten caught up in a project. His own apartment had been closer to his lab, and so, when Wheeljack finally quit for the day, he’d autopiloted there rather than trudge back to sleep on Starscream’s berth alone. 

His chronometer suggested he’d barely been there three hours before Staracream had come barreling in, apparently ready to talk about why this meeting with Megatron bothered more than any of the others.

It was times like these that Wheeljack sympathized with Inferno. 

"The lug is his replacement for Soundwave, you know. He’s used to having three. One he loves, one he hates, and one he hides. The third ones just for _sex._ ” The human word brings the world into focus a bit more–despite the growing popularity of Earthen-English and Earthen-Japanese due to the entertainment offered by both, Starscream’s never bothered to speak either. 

“He hasn’t claimed Rodimus yet. Hopefully the brat’s smart enough to avoid his traps. Hasn’t found a third either, if he’s still honeymooning with the Tryst reject.” Like a geyser that’s exploded and can’t stop, Starscream continued to rant, hands waving as he paced. 

Wheeljack didn’t stop him. Figured this is needed. 

“Probably figured out that he can’t get close to Rodimus. He has a support system. No, instead he’s coming here, and he wants to make _amends._ ” One hand frantically presses against his throat, holding it as if he’s trying to seal an injury. 

Finally Starscream spins, optics popped wide in panic and malice, facing towards Wheeljack. “He thinks he can just waltz in and put me back under his thumb, easy as you please!”

"Star.” The mustang said softly. “Come here. Please.” He added when Starscream just glared at him, fans whirling in stress. 

Slowly, Starscream does, though he doesn’t sit down. 

Projecting his movements, Wheeljack reached out, took a hand. Looked up. “His claim on you is void. You said so yourself.”

He gets an optic roll in response. “So? He doesn’t care. I’ve made it void a hundred times before this and he _never_ cared!”

“He can’t overrule you.” Wheeljack countered. “Not this time.” 

Starscream just laughs. It’s cruel and a little broken, and it hurts Wheeljack to hear it. “He can. He always can.”

“That was before. You’re the ruler of Cybertron now. And you have support.”

Starscream tried to pull his hand away. 

Wheeljack didn’t let go. 

“Who?” He demanded. 

“Me.” Wheeljack said automatically. “Windblade, and her group if you let them. Some of the colonists.”

Starscream sniffed. “That’s a very small number.”

“It’s more than you had before.”

That at least, Starscream doesn’t deny. 

They stare at each other. Wheeljack doesn’t say anything else, just rubbed his thumb on the back of the hand he’s captured, the one Starscream’s blatantly letting him have. 

“Fine.” Starscream finally said, though it’s clear that he is far from fine. 

Wheeljack recognizes a shut down when he sees one. “Come on, let’s go to bed.” He nudged the seeker back gently so he could stand up, stretch. “It’ll do us both some good.”

Starscream doesn’t respond, though he let himself be led to berth. Allowed Wheeljack to gently push him down, then hold him. 

There, with Starscream in his arms and neither of them really sleeping, Wheeljack put his mind to work on something he could do. Something that would actually help, before Starscream falls apart in front of him. 

Or worse–in front of Megatron. 

A plan is cautiously hatched, one he thinks, he might need to comm Drift for.

But those are thought for tomorrow. 

xXx

Six days to go until the _Lost Ligh_ t lands and Wheeljack locks himself up in his lab.He makes sure he is only reachable to a selective few, and schedules enough distracting 'problems’ with Windblade to keep Starscream suitably distracted and busy.

For once, a project of his goes beautifully, from start to finish.

xXx

It’s a testament to how badly Starscream is distracted that it takes him a full minute to notice the package laid out carefully on his desk. 

Wheeljack is lounging in one of the plush chairs Starscream refuses to let Windblade sit in, having timed every moment from here on out down to a T. Both of their evenings are free, something he had to work to make happen. 

Starscream stopped mid-word; strutting over to the package to stare at it once he spotted it. Slowly his optics slide over to Wheeljack with a look that says he is absolutely not in the mood for any kind of shenanigans.

“Open it.” Wheeljack said, not bothering to hide his smile. 

Without much fanfare, Starscream did. 

His claws quickly reveal a sword. It’s made to match Starscream’s current paint–red edge, white blade. It’s curvature is unique, the whole thing as much as a piece of art as it is a weapon. 

Starscream’s hands ghost over it for a moment, before he slowly finds the handle. Lifted it up, took a step back, gave it a swing. 

Found, then pressed a button and grinned ferally as orange energy sprung to life, covering the blade. 

“Is it to your satisfaction?” Wheeljack asked, every inch the proud inventor. 

“Yes.” Starscream replied, unable to contain his merth as he switched the sword to his other hand. Practiced turning it on and off while taking a stab at an invisible enemy. 

One more swing and something caught his optic. He switched the sword off, then pulled it closer to his face. 

Examined it, running his fingers along the edge. 

“What does this transform into?” Starscream asked, looking up in time to catch Wheeljack’s widening grin.

“A wing.” The scientist all but purred, getting up on his pedes. He walked over, one hand reaching out in a request, and Starscream promptly handed over the blade to him.

“Not quite set up just right, it needs to be integrated with a system for it to be smoother _but-_ -” Wheeljack fiddled with the handle-end for a moment, and managed to trigger a transformation sequence, producing an exact replica of one of Starscream’s wings. “Ta-da!” 

He beamed, staring back up at Starscream’s face and is rewarded with a look that is openly fond, if a bit puzzled. 

It’s one of the best looks Wheeljack has ever seen the seeker make.

“And why would I want to replace my wing with a blade?” Starscream asked, but his tone had a thread of fondness woven within it, and he took the sword back from Wheeljack after the scientists transformed it out of the wing shape. 

“Figured if I was going to rip your wing off I might as well replace it with something nice.” Wheeljack replied easily, straightening up with his hands on his hips, ignoring how Starscream instantly stilled. “It’s made out of fully updated materials–you can tackle a titan with that sword and it’ll still be airworthy at the end!” 

_“What._ ” Starscream replied, wings automatically dropping to a defensive posture, armor slicking flat to his body. He tried to make his voice threatening, but the surprise just made the words come out flat. 

Wheeljack bobbed his helm in a nod, then came closer, crowding him. “I have a full list of materials if you’d like to see it, along with all the built in capabilities. I’ve been assured the energy system won’t interfere with your general coding at all and–”

“Wheeljack.” Starscream said warningly. It cut Wheeljack off, though the mustang was now firmly in Starscream’s space, the sword all that was between them. “You plan on _ripping my wing off?”_

“Only if you say yes.” Wheeljack explained with a cheeky, teasing grin. 

Starscream hadn’t retracted his field, and slowly, Wheeljack pressed his own against it. Let heat build there for a second, against the various emotions turning in Starscream’s, staring into narrowed red optics. 

“I’m not Megatron.” Wheekjack continued, knowing it was a risk mentioning the former warlord’s name, but one he had to take to explain what he was offering. “I don’t expect a yes and it won’t change anything if you say no. The swords a courting gift–Autobot thing–you can keep it, whatever you decide to do.” 

Which isn’t quite the “threatening, protective pressure” Drift had talked about when it came to staking a claim, but then, Wheeljack thought Starscream might have had a lifetime of that already. 

“You want to claim me.” Starscream said.. His hands grip harder on the hilt of the sword, his head coming up as he puts the puzzle of Wheeljack’s actions together. “So that Megatron can’t.” 

“That’s part of it.” Wheeljack agreed. “But not all of it.” 

Starscream didn’t hear that part. 

“You understand this would fly directly in Megatron’s face. Would–force him, to realize I truly was not his anymore.” Implied was the fact that this had the potential to seriously piss Megatron off, particularly if he was still hooked on reclaiming Starscream, a fact that the seeker was certain of. 

“I know. What do you think the sword’s for?” Wheeljack replied.

That probably wasn’t the answer he was supposed to give–claims were based heavily in protecting one another–but it was the one Starscream needed. By arming him, Wheeljack had empowered him–would be protecting him, by providing him with a superior weapon that would easily replace the null rays he still missed. 

Without once looking away, Starscream moved the sword out from between them, placing it on his desk. 

“You’d better give me a hell of a frag if you’re going to rip my wing off.” Starscream said, stepping to press his cockpit against Wheeljack’s chest. 

Wheeljack cocked his head, fins flashing in delight. “That a yes then?”

“That is a yes.” Starscream said, before reaching up and kissing Wheeljack. 

Living up to the desired command, Wheeljack fucked him very, very hard.

xXx

“Megatron.” Starscream purred, seated behind his massive, imported desk. His wing’s flared out as the former warlord and current _Lost Light_ Co-Captain approached, not bothering to stand to greet the mech. 

To his left, Wheeljack raised a hand in a lazy, informal greeting, his other hand buried in a mess of wires that was balanced on his lap. He had the plush chair, whereas the ones Ultra Magnus and Megatron were presented with where the hard seats Starscream only pulled out for people he truly hated. 

This was the first time he’d ever used them. 

Greetings were returned, both painfully cheerful as Megatron and Ultra Magnus sat.

Both of the larger mechs held themselves somewhat stiffly, though the former Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord kept sneaking Wheeljack disapproving glances as the mustang focused back on his work. 

Megatron’s optics however, had caught on something else entirely, and were focused on the new scar Starscream was blatantly flaunting. 

Starscream’s grin grew, and by the time Megatron met the seeker’s optics, neatly showed off his fangs. 

“Shall we get this meeting started?” Starscream said happily. 

Thrown off, though no one else but Starscream could see it, Megatron did. 

They got about fifteen minutes in before Ultra Magnus couldn’t take it anymore. 

“Wheeljack is that an _active bomb?_ ” Magnus said incredulously, as the mess of wires finally took the shape of something recognizable.

“Close, it’s a nuke!” Wheeljack said proudly, fins flashing a happy teal-orange. “This little guy could take out half of Iacon!” 

Ultra Magnus reset his optics, before turning to stare in disbelief at his Captain. 

“You are allowing your pet engineer to play with a nuke in your office?” Megatron said to Starscream, his carefully neutral voice slipping into something disproving. 

Starscream gave him a fanged grin. “New claim, you know how those go.” He said flicking his wings to once again show off the thick, silver scar surrounding the left appendage. “Just ignore him. Now, you were asking about potential trade routes the _Lost Light_ found…?” 

It took clear effort on Megatron’s part, but he managed to return to the conversation topic at hand and held it, though even Wheeljack could sense the way the mood had shifted in the room–or the way the grey mech’s optics kept wandering over to stare at Starscream’s new scars. 

He even managed an apology, as stilted as it was. 

Once–and only once–did his optics meet Wheeljack’s at the end of the meeting, and the mustang couldn’t help himself.

He winked, and immensely enjoyed the way Megatron’s optics flicked in smothered rage. 

“Worth it.” He told Starscream later, as the seeker continued to laugh about his former claimer’s face. “Every single thing about this, was worth it.” 

Then he kissed the back of Starscream’s hand like the sap he was. 


	6. Prowl/Jazz: Messages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is in Track List but is now also here where it belongs!
> 
> Pairing: Jazz/Prowl
> 
> Warnings: This is a little gory, as Prowl does nothing by halfs (he takes out one of Jazz’s optics) and kinda flirts with dub con territory, but that’s not the intention. (Fun fact, what happens here is like fairy tail level of romance for Cons which is why Jazz reacts as he does at the end lol.) This kinda plays into current events a little bit since it mentions the start of the war, and contains Jazz as a former Co (along with the usual scarification and claiming shit from the other CCC stuff)
> 
> Summary: Con Culture: Messages--Decepticon Culture was exploitable. Prowl's done the research, he has the data to show it. Better, he's found his mark in the underused, Decepticon saboteur known as Jazz. Gaining him will increase the Autobot's chance of winning the war, pushing the data into acceptable parameters.
> 
> Without him, their chances of winning plummet.
> 
> Prowl's been playing a dangerous game, but it's finally time for it all to pay off. That is, if he can successfully make his claim.

Messages 

* * *

900 deaths a day, and Prowl was no longer Praxis’s head detective, but a soldier in an army no one took seriously. 

He grit his denta, listening to his superiors go through yet another song and dance about how well they were doing.

It was filled with false information and outright lies.

_‘We have this under control. We are working with our neighboring cities.’_

Refugees were pouring in, and they didn’t have the space for them. Tensions were skyrocketing, and Prowl found himself working around the clock.

This wasn’t what he signed up for, but he’d seen what many others refused to even consider.

They were past the point of no return. 

The months began to run together. Rules were established, broken, changed, then reestablished in a never ending cycle. Pressure built, as everyone either picked a side or fled.

Prowl saw more and more red badges now.

The Decepticons were no longer hiding theirs. 

1500 deaths a day, and his superiors still wouldn’t admit they had a planet wide war on their hands.

_‘Don’t panic people needlessly. Report your neighbors if you see anything suspicious. Working together is how we will survive.’_

The fighting would be on their doorsteps soon, and afterwards they would no longer be able to pretend that this was nothing more than a short war, a blip of violence for the better of Cybertron. 

2000 deaths a day, and Prowl found himself ranked and rising, his fellow Autobots whispering his name.

_‘Trust us, not them. We will keep you safe. You have to do your part. You have to complete the tasks we ask of you. Everything will be fine. Not all is lost. Trust us.’_

Praxis died. 

The Senate fell. 

Years–decades–passed.

The world as they knew it changed, and they found themselves existing in something post-apocalyptic.

And in it, Prowl found a rival in a Decepticon he couldn’t shake.

The mech outsmarted him at every turn. Always two steps ahead and rarely surprised, Jazz was the exact kind of mech the Autobots were missing. The one who knew their enemy inside and out, a mech with an edge sharp enough to predict the unpredictable, to plot ahead in ways that would be devastating instead of easily foreseen. 

In the dark of his room, Prowl reviewed the data. 

Numbers didn’t lie. 

People did. 

Reports, prediction models and perfectly executed charts, these gave Prowl an insight that few others seemed to grasp. What they didn’t want to see.

Based on what lay before him, the future looked bleak. 

This was something most Autobots misunderstood.

They wanted hope. They wanted to think their efforts meant something. That their deaths would mean something. Autobots had been told they were the good guys, and the good guys always won–so they would too.

Right?

Prowl’s data said otherwise. 

Except…

Decepticon Culture was exploitable. 

Prowl had pointed this out twice to his superior officers. Both times he’d been laughed out of the meeting.

The numbers were there.

His tests returned with positive results. 

Their window of opportunity was closing. 

Prowl ignored them. Ignored some of his orders. Further studies were needed, to close crucial data points.

Foisting off his own duties bothered him, but not for long. His career path was assured. He’d be ranked above those who had ignored his warnings soon enough.

If this plan proved as vital as he believed it was, then it would all be worth it. 

Jazz chased him all the while, and as soon as his plans were shaped, Prowl started chasing right back. 

Interest, he understood, had to be shown–and returned.

_‘Today we mourn all those we lost in Tygar Pass. Be strong. The tide will soon turn, and Autobots will rise again!'_

The plan had a 56% success rate.

Should he achieve it, the Autobots chances of winning the war rose to 78% percent.

Without it, without _Jazz,_ their chances dropped to 32%. 

Risk analysis showed his biggest issues would arise after Prowl had succeeded–if he was caught. 

Autobots–his superiors specifically–wouldn’t understand. They would consider his plan a war crime, his actions incomprehensible. 

Decepticons wouldn’t look twice.

If anything, using their own rules, their own society against them, showed at minimum an understanding of their mindset.

Prowl may need to study more than most when it came to emotions, but he understood well enough that a middle ground was needed to win the war. 

His plans had taken the better part of two years. It had largely gone well, well enough that he felt assured in his decisions.

Today was the tipping point. The last piece that could backfire in a way that was unrecoverable. 

He had not been nervous in years, not when the battle computer ingrained in his processor was ruled by numerical outcomes (and the acceptance of the unwanted statistics, the parts no one wanted to admit were there) but today he was–because this part wasn’t just about the war.

It was about them.

He curved the street, avoiding rubble with ease. Racing had never been a hobby of his. Any instinctual desire to chase was used plenty enough in his earlier days, and now lay long dormant.

Jazz had changed that though.

The plan called for flashy movements, a sirens call in the form of a potential challenge. Prowl wasn’t fast or agile, and he’d been long forced to make up for it with smart driving and on the fly calculations that gave him parameters for optic catching stunts that wouldn’t kill him.

He had to be impressive. Irresistible–and better than his opponent. 

It was that last part, that fed the nerves. 

It took another twenty minutes for Jazz to sight him. The mech wasn’t subtle when he did, and Prowl engaged immediately when the smaller sports car practically careened into him. 

They chased each other for a moment.

Prowl with a purpose, Jazz for the fun of it.

The Autobot had a location in mind, and through carefully made choices and taunts, got them both there.

Front tires locked as he spun around a corner. He’d gotten Jazz to go ahead of him, and was rewarded when the smaller car had to slam on his breaks and spin about to avoid hitting a massive barricade.

Prowl continued forward, flipped into root mode in a movement that turned into a tuck and roll while he brought up his gun. It was a flashy trick, one designed less for defensive reasons and more to be threatening. 

“Fancy.” His quarry said as Jazz transformed, the darker mechs own gun coming up to sight him. 

Prowl fired first.

The fight went fast from there. His opponent wasn’t withholding blows while Prowl was looking to only incapacitate, giving the Con an edge, but Prowl had a plan he knew the other mech wouldn’t see coming. 

He had anticipated for an opening within 45 seconds of engaging in close range combat and his data didn’t disappoint. 

Using his weight, he managed to get a drop on his opponent, slamming the both of them to the ground. Prowl landed on top, one knee pinning Jazz’s right hand while he used one of his own to hold the left. 

This was what everything centered on. Should he fail here, in this moment, then years of plans, of collected data, would crumble under him and with it, any chance of victory.

Prowl didn’t have claws or fangs. His research indicated he couldn’t use a tool (for any mark left by one would not be considered as serious a claim.) 

Whatever he chose had to be visible, permanent, and potentially life threatening. It had to establish him as both strong enough to be a protector, and in control enough to demand that a side switch was the better option. 

It could not be something easily fixed. Erased. It had to represent a physical, life long commitment.

A message.

A promise. 

An offer of engagement.

Prowl raised his free hand and tore out one of Jazz’s optics. 

Jazz howled, throwing back his head. He bucked, struggling, but Prowl kept on him, dealing damage in as many ways as he could. 

To succeed would permanently damage Jazz’s vision, dropping it by half. 

A loss Prowl accepted–and had already planned to make up for, with a custom made visor he’d traded more than his fair share of favors to get.

When he estimated that his goal had been achieved, Jazz still thrashing wildly under him, he removed his hand, caught Jazz by the throat and slammed their lips together. 

Hard, fast and violent, made in the promise of stolen energon that now coated both their faces, he finished staking his claim. 

Jazz froze under him, entire body tense, no longer fighting but processing. 

Slowly, hesitantly, the Con kissed him back. 

Prowl kept his lips pressed against the Con’s for a moment longer, before pulling back, energon dripping down his face and onto Jazz’s.

Vents panting, fans kicking on in a slow thrum, Jazz stared at him through his untouched, remaining optic. 

“You know what you’re doing there, mech?” He rasped, field pulled tight against his body.

Prowl responded by pressing his own down, invading Jazz’s space so he could feel the intention–the heat–that swept through his field.

“Don’t play stupid. You were aware of my intentions.” He responded; because he’d done this by the book. Every rule followed, every sign and signal patiently waited for. 

Jazz gave a pained laugh, going limp under Prowl’s body, pushing his own heated field back. 

“Maybe.” He admitted. “Kinda thought I’d be the one to do this part though." 

Energon pulsed out his wound in clumps. Without treatment he’d be at risk of bleeding out, an outcome Prowl couldn’t afford and didn’t intend. 

Shifting his knee off and to the side so he could straddle his caught Con, Prowl let go long enough to pull a med kit out of his subspace. He’d researched this just as thoroughly as he had everything else, and methodically began the process of cleaning the wound. 

Jazz would lose the optic, he had made sure of that, but a good and proper medic would be able to patch his face up well enough. 

The Con allowed him to reach the point where his life was no longer in immediate danger, before lifting a hand to hold Prowl’s wrist. 

"That’s good enough, mech.” He said. “Don’t bother with picking the glass out. Just slap a bandage on it.”

Prowl frowned down at him. “If left like that, it will scar your protoform beyond what I had intended." 

"Yeah.” Jazz said, voice almost dreamy. “Want it to.”

A long moment passed between them.

“You have lost too much energon.” Prowl determined.

He got another pained laugh. 

“Nah. If I’m gonna get marked by an Autobot then I want everyone to see the fight I put up–and just how much you wanted me anyways.” Jazz said.

That did align with what he knew both of Con society and Jazz personally, and his battle computer accepted this as truth before the rest of Prowl managed it. 

His internal chronometer chimed, signaling it was time to end their encounter.

“There is a Decepticon patrol coming in five minutes. I will stay with you for three, and watch to make sure they receive you for the remaining two. You should be back on patrol within two weeks. I expect to meet you back here then.” He said, slowly getting up and off his claimed mech, before offering a hand to help Jazz do the same.

“Had this all planned out huh?” The Con said, allowing Prowl to pull him up, then using him as a pillar to lean against.

“Yes.” Prowl admitted easily, because it was the truth. “From the moment I realized what you were capable of.” 

That smug, dreamy look was back on Jazz face, showing through despite all the energon that painted it. "How romantic.” He said.

It wasn’t sarcastic, though an Autobot would have taken it as such. 

Prowl knew better.

“Glad it was to your standards.” He responded, before giving in to his own Autovot nature, and grasping on to one of Jazz’s hands, lifting it so that he could kiss the back. 

It was a too soft show of affection for a Decepticon, but a shudder ran through the smaller mech anyways. 

Prowl didn’t let it go for the remaining minutes they had. 

He had played by Con rules. It was long past time that Jazz could return it, and play by a few of the Autobots.

(Which he, eventually, did.)


End file.
